Marx The Spot

Lookit. I’ve clipped plenty of things before in my retail days. When I was young. I mean, I was the assistant manager of a record store, for chrissakes. Every Sunday I did inventory. We had those 7″ singles back then. I mean on vinyl. So you know I got my share of free stuff. I used to let Giancarlo from the pizza joint next door come in and snag Iron Maiden tapes or AC/DC or Zep, in exchange for countless slices. Pepperoni and garlic. And a large Mountain Dew. I cut deals to the Speaker Man across the mall in exchange for a set of Jensens that went straight into my Trans-Am and all the free wire in the world. The guy was Greek, so he’d always request shit like Nana Mouskouri or Panayiotis Kokoras. He mostly dug Julio Iglesias, so I’d always set aside a couple of things by him. Julio had this version of “Begin the Beguine” which ripped! It was live, too. So much better than Jo Stafford. Anyway, what I’m saying is, I can understand the desire for snagging shit. You know, “sticking it to the man” and all that. But this is a little independent, used book store, so when the fellas come in and clip stuff, it really does hurt the bottom line. I’ve had to chase the rats out. Literally. I’m not kidding; Louisville Slugger and all, I’ve had to run out after these bastards. “Go rob a fucking corporate chain, you scumbag!”

One time this guy came in with a list and asked if we had anything by Brat…Brauts…Brautztigun. I assumed he meant Brautigan and asked to see the piece of paper he was holding. It was written in very neat handwriting, clearly not his:
1. Charles Bukowski
2. Richard Brautigan
3. Lawrence Ferlinghetti
4. William S. Burroughs
5. Hunter S. Thompson
(and any graphic novel you can get your hands on)
I asked him if he preferred Brautigan’s “Trout Fishing in America” to “In Watermelon Sugar” as I did, or Burroughs’ “Junky” to “Naked Lunch.” The chatter made him nervous at first, then angry. He stormed out of here calling me a highbrow faggot.

The best clip ever, or the one that made me laugh the hardest, was some little Armenian or Albanian guy. I watched him the entire time. He was in the place for almost an hour. Just looking. But he somehow still got his junk. I couldn’t prove anything so I didn’t go chasing him with the baseball bat. You couldn’t bring out the stick unless you had proof, and I hadn’t seen him do anything out of the ordinary in the time he was here. But a few minutes after he walked out, I noticed that all six copies of Karl Marx’s “Communist Manifesto” were missing. On the shelf, in their place, he had left a home made audio cassette and a note which read: “The Communism long live.” I played the tape later in my car. It was outrageous. It was a copy of “Die Internationale” sung in German. It was blaring out of the Jensens. “Die Internationale” in a Trans-Am in the parking lot of an outdoor mall. It was brilliant.

Buena Vista

Havana again. Only it’s now. We walk into a colossal, resplendent opera hall. She is barefoot. She is wearing a white skirt. The wind comes in through the baronial windows. It pushes the silk drapes inwards. Then it sucks them back.
“Do you hear it?” she says.
“Follow it down.”
We make our way to the stage—to the piano. A thin, brown man with long fingers is playing a samba.
“I am Chachao,” he says.
“I know,” I answer.
He smiles at her and then goes back to his piece.
“I’m looking for Manolito.”
His fingers work the keys smoothly.
“Do you know where he might be?”
He looks up at her again.
“When the woman bends,” he says, “then you will understand everything.”
She holds to my arm and scratches her calf with her other foot.
“Do you know?”
“You will find everything at the sea,” he says. He points out to the east.

The Revolution is Eternal

She asks about the banner, and the Greaser cars, and the colorful buildings with paint peeling off, and I tell her that, in a way, time in Havana has not moved beyond 1959.
“Nineteen fifty-nine? Were you even born then?”
She has a way of asking questions which disarms even the most mean-spirited of warriors. It’s something in her voice. The timbre. Her face. Lips. I cannot explain it or do it any justice with words. We slide down the streets toward the sea. The breeze attacks off the water, and gets caught in her long hair. She is momentarily frazzled. She touches her cheek and says something about her skin being bad.
“God…”
I’m suddenly removed from this scene and I’m now watching the two of them work through the absurdity of her self-deprecation.

Karl Ma X

“Who is Karl Max?” she says.
“Karl Marx.”
“It says Max.”
“I know. There’s a letter missing.”
“Ok. Then who is Karl Marx?”
I tell her.

Che Guevarra Playing Golf with Fidel

We’re on the beach now. I can feel the powdery, white sand underneath her bare feet, as she feels it. It’s a strange, symbiotic sensation. She is pure and kind. She is beautiful. I hold her by her hips with my left arm. She gathers her hair in the wind, twists it, and puts it up with a clip. Manolito is there, playing the bass, and Chachao on the piano, Puntillita singing, and Amadito Valdes at the timbales.
“Show me again where you were born,” she says.
I point across the ocean, east and north.
“God. You’re a long way from home.”

Perez Prado and Celia Cruz belting out a pachanga and a cha-cha-cha

I step back, away from it all, and leave the two of them there, dancing to the rhythmic punto of the guajiros on the beach.
Havana again.
Only it’s 1959.